


piece by piece, my sweet

by nezstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Light-Hearted, M/M, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 04:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15855957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: Stiles liked being liked and he really wanted to become Boyd's friend. Really wanted.





	piece by piece, my sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/gifts).



> No beta has been found so it was edited on my phone. I apologize in advance.
> 
> This has been far more difficult to write for me than I thought. Not because of the word count (although I barely scrape the 1k mark most of the time), but because I lost my touch. I'm sorry, Mads, you deserve better.

Stiles starts innocently enough, by his standards, by doing his research. It’s his thing after all, burrowing in books and print outs and adding questionable sites to his internet history. In this case though, he thinks, it’s all in good faith and there is no reason to accuse him of stalking, okay Scott? 

 

He’s just trying to make friends. 

 

It’s not that he doesn't have any. There’s Scott, quite obviously, Allison and Erica, Heather and Caitlyn, Peter Hale of all people. His gamer friends. Lydia now that he’s done obsessing over her.

 

Stiles just… likes being liked and he thinks that’s what pack is about - partially at least, - connecting with each other and being friends.

 

He knows Boyd has his back, they all protect each other. But. Stiles wants it to be a bit more than just obligation and fragile pack bonds. And he’s already working on wearing down Derek and Cora, the sour and tough wolves that they are. Becoming friends with Boyd should be easier, no Power Point presentation included.

 

First thing first, breaking the initial ice. Or frost. He doubts Boyd actually hates him. He wouldn’t have let Stiles copy his Chemistry homework last week, after Stiles spent three days looking up  _ rusałki, _ if it were otherwise.

 

Stiles starts by plopping down next to Boyd at the lunch table. It’s not outwardly weird, the whole pack sits together these days. Stiles just has to make sure there’s room for Erica on Boyd’s other side. 

 

He tries to drag Boyd into light conversation, talking about general topics like complaining about Harris, speculating what kind of supernatural creature their new English teacher is or whether the pizza they sell at the cafeteria has actual mushrooms on it, or is it something they shouldn’t dwell on.

 

“I mean, if you squint hard enough, like so hard you can barely see what you’re looking at, it does kind of resemble mushrooms? But on the other hand,” Stiles muses, shuddering a little as he surveys his pizza, “They’re kind of really… slimy.”

 

“I don’t know,” Scott says, poking at the dark oval  _ mushroom _ , “You have had worse in your mouth.”

 

“All of them voluntarily, if you don’t count Deaton’s potions.” Stiles gets queasy at the sheer memory of the concoction the vet fed him after Stiles got stung by a fire scorpion.   
  


“Yeah, they’re rank,” Boyd agrees, then actually takes a bite of the pizza, “And so is this.”

 

Stiles laughs at the face Boyd makes as he fights not to puke and offers him his 7up to wash it down. He doesn’t oppose when Boyd gives him his chocolate pudding a few minutes later in thanks. 

 

Stiles doesn’t go as far as insinuating himself in Boyd’s space every chance he gets. He doesn’t run to get the free space on the couch next to him, or topple Isaac over for the opportunity.

 

Instead, he fights his way into Boyd’s good graces with baked goods because one: Boyd has a sweet tooth that rivals Peter’s, and two, Stiles excels at baking.

 

Stiles always makes sure to bake enough for everyone to get a taste, but he does carter to Boyd’s tastes more than others and has that extra muffin or a few additional cookies set aside for Boyd just in case the rest of the pack is particularly ravenous.

 

He does have to bake two of his famous cakes, offering one to the pack and splitting the other one in two though, if only to prevent Peter from going for Boyd’s throat and Boyd from going at Peter in turn. That particular fight would definitely not be pretty.

 

“I thought  _ I’m _ your favorite,” Peter mock pouts at him as he plucks raisins out of the cinnamon rolls Stiles brought to the meeting, “And yet here you are, with this travesty.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes at Peter’s dramatics and bats away the raisins Peter keeps throwing at him.

 

“Don’t listen to the drama queen,” Boyd says as he not-so-subtly steals the whole plate, “These are amazing exactly as they are.”

 

Stiles definitely doesn’t flush at that, no sir, but he does grin brightly at Boyd.

 

Peter’s murmured  _ huh _ draws his attention away from Boyd thought. 

 

“So that’s how it is,” Peter says, smirking at Stiles like he figured something out.

 

“What’s how it is?” Stiles asks, confused. 

 

Peter winks at him, the asshole, “You’ll figure it out,” then points to the half mauled cinnamon roll he’s still holding, “In the meantime, I expect you’ll make me my own batch _ without raisins,  _  as reparations for the emotional distress these caused me.”  

 

Stiles pointedly does not roll his eyes at Peter this time, though the urge is there, unless he sprains something, and just pulls out a second tupperware from his backpack, pushing it at Peter.

 

“Go stuff yourself, Zombiewolf.”

 

“Gladly,” Peter replies around his raisin-less cinnamon roll.

 

Stiles shakes his head at himself, the things he does for these wolves.

 

He forgets about Peter’s cryptic comment, at least until two weeks later when he finishes knitting an Aquaman themed scarf. He's never knitted much before, although his mom taught him a few things before she died. 

 

It's as bittersweet as it's cathartic to pick up his mom's old needles and the bright wool he got and to just… allow himself and his fingers to go with it. There might be a few tears soaked into the wool, but no one will be able to tell once he's done with the scarf.

 

But it's after he's done with the project and Lydia spies him packing it up, telling him that: “You never knitted  _ me _ anything when you had were infatuated with me,” her tone a bit wistful, that he had to stop and think about what exactly his goal is.

 

Because he really does want Boyd to like him and consider him a good friend, that hasn't changed, but if Boyd liked him just a little bit more. If he sometimes imagined them all snuggled up and cozy, and it cause his belly to flip in excitement, just like Stiles’ did. Well.

 

Stiles would be besides himself if that ever happened. So he puts the package in his backpack and tries not to dwell on it.

 

It's Boyd himself that sorts out the mess that are Stiles’ confusing feelings.

 

They're out patrolling, just the two of them, paired up because somehow both Peter and Erica, their usual patrol partners, had weaseled their way out of it for the night.

 

Stiles would call foul, but it's an hour long stroll alone with Boyd and the thought  preoccupies him and he totally misses Boyd rolling his eyes at their respective friends.

 

Stiles may or may not wear a nicer tee for patrolling that day, but that's about it because he'd hate to trip over a branch and rip his one good pair of jeans. A patrol is a patrol.

 

He picks up Boyd on his way and drives them to the east part of the Preserve, chattering away the whole way there because he feels nervous. He curses Lydia, but minimally in case she senses it in any way, because if she hadn't said anything he'd wouldn't be feeling so on edge. 

 

Boyd doesn't comment on it, but he also doesn't run from him as they start their route, keeping pace with Stiles instead.

 

He even lets their arms brush occasionally, making Stiles’ heartbeat skyrocket. It makes him think about the scarf stashed away in his backpack in Roscoe, about all the cookies and cakes he's made for Boyd, about all the time he spent trying to get to know him.

 

He's so deeply in thought that he doesn't notice the fallen tree in their path and trips over it. Only he doesn't fall on his face.

 

Boyd has managed to catch the back of his shirt and he pulls Stiles back up using it. Once Stiles is back standing straight Boyd lets go of his shirt, but doesn't stop touching him, simply moving his hand to Stiles’ arm.

 

“You're thinking about it way too hard,” Boyd says, smiling at Stiles softly.

 

“What?”

 

“Asking me out. You've been courting me for the better part of three months.”

 

Stiles gapes at Boyd for a minute, mind completely blank, before it reboots and he has to scramble to string words together. 

 

“I… I didn't realize that's what I was doing,” Stiles admits, then hastily adds in case Boyd doesn't understand, “Not until now. But I do want to ask you. On a date. If you want?”

 

“Of course I do,” Boyd replies, placing both his hands at Stiles’ waist, “Also, I need you to tone it down with the baking, because I might have a werewolf metabolism now, but that doesn't help me burn through all that sugar.”

 

“Well,” Stiles drawls, emboldened by the soft way Boyd keeps looking at him, the slightly possessive way he holds him, the playful smile. Stiles takes a step closer, nearly closing the distance between them, wraps his arms around Boyd's shoulders, “I could help you burn that sugar.”

 

Boyd laughs at that, leans in to kiss the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

 

“I don't know, you're plenty sweet yourself.”

  
  
  



End file.
